Visting Ghosts
by AwkwardDotard
Summary: Set 6 months after the events of Unwound Future. Imogen, an old friend of Clive's decides to visit him in prison. She's not sure how he'll react to her presence, but she's in in for a surprise either way. Rated T for eventual angst and a little profanity.
1. Chapter 1

How long has it been? How long since I've seen him? Ever since Clive's been in prison, I haven't plucked up the courage to go and visit him. The only times I see his face are when it emerges in the newspapers, amongst the vilifying headlines and the claims of murder. Not one day passes where I don't think about him, alone in his cell, possibly brooding in his own anger.

Everyone has demons. Everyone has something to face down. I just wish that I had done more to help him while we were growing up. We were inseparable; I'd always go around for afternoon tea, and often stay over. Whenever Clive had an issue, I was always the first one he'd talk to. Me. Despite our seemingly endless friendship, he seemed to grow distant and uncaring as we reached adulthood. The problem was however, it happened too quickly for me to process it. Angry with his sudden rejection, I further alienated him, and tried to keep my distance.

That was a mistake

Collecting my things together and leaving the lab after a laborious night shift, I make my way towards the Queensway tube station. I don't really know how I came about the decision in the first place, but I had to visit him. As I walk past the tremendous gates of Hyde Park, I fish around in my satchel until I find the Visiting Order which I had applied to get. I would see Clive tomorrow. Reading through the formal document hurts more than ever. This is what Clive and my love and friendship has been reduced to. Slips of paper.

Finally arriving at the station, I rapidly swipe my Oyster card against the reader and hurry through the barriers. I take a fleeting glance around me. Everything's completely serene and quiet; it's a stark contrast to the scrambles of Rush Hour. After softly running down the escalator, I stand stationary, on the platform, buttoning up my coat to protect me from the night's chill.

Lovely spot.

Why did the station have to be an outdoors one? I begin to wonder about Clive. Is he cold too? Do they feed him well in prison? As I recall, he's the fussiest eater ever known to man; when I used to go round for tea, he'd demand everything with cherry jam and butter. Something tells me that there's not much of that in jail. As I think about him, alone and wrapped in hatred, I feel a tear run down my face. Before long, the train arrives at the platform. Without thinking, I step on board and sit at a window, staring out at the night's sky wistfully, as the train wheezes along the tracks.

This time tomorrow, I will have seen Clive, and that scares me more than anything. I don't know what to expect. I suspect that he won't be too pleased to see me at first, considering I'm the one that ignored him during our University days. The train stops. I slowly step onto the platform, and attempt to get to my flat as quickly as possible. The very second I step out of the Bond Street tube station, it begins raining. Cursing the typical London weather, I break into a run, and doing my best to avoid the onslaught of traffic, I reach my flat. Key in hand, I approach the door and sigh in relief, as I meet the comforting shelter of the doorway. I enter my ground floor flat.

Unable to control the wave of emotion which was now plaguing my body, I crumple to the ground in a wet heap of fabric, and begin to cry profusely.

Note: For those readers who aren't sure, an Oyster card's something that we use for Transport in London. It's basically like a train credit card, which we put money on and swipe at train stations.


	2. Chapter 2

Here, I sit.

Watching.

Waiting.

It's time.

The guard makes a fleeting gesture towards me, and beckons me towards him. As I walk through the prison halls towards the visiting hall, my heart thumps madly beneath my chest. Not a sound can be heard, save my nervous steps. It's surreal. In order to push the sickening nerves out of my head, I try to imagine that I'm walking down the road from school, towards Clive's house. The dismal, gray walls suddenly dissolve, and change into beautifully crafted, detached homes, worthy of housing royalty. The lingering scent of freshly baking apple pie dances in the air around me, as I eagerly make my way towards my best friend's home.

The sweet memories are abruptly torn from me, as I reach a door. Shoving it open with one movement, the guard ushers me in.

"You have half an hour." He deeply mutters, before closing the door behind me.

I slowly lift my eyes, and stare at the man sitting before me. My breath hitches in my throat as my eyes rake over him. 'This is not _my_ Clive,' was the only thought that was running through my head before finally speaking.

"Cl-Clive?" I manage to say.

"You know who I am. Why the bloody hell are you here? To mock me?" He demands gutturally. His face is twisted into the utmost epitome of anger and rage. I steady myself on the chair set aside for me. Why is he so angry to see me?

That's a stupid question. I haven't spoken to him in over 3 years, and now I suddenly emerge out of the blue, I realise dejectedly. I'd be pissed too if I were him, in all honesty. I manage to compose myself, for the first bloody time in a month.

"Listen..." I begin.

"No, you listen. I don't want to see you. I haven't seen you in years, and I don't want you here now. All of the times I tried to call you last summer, when I was lower than low. Did your phone just conveniently break?"

Phone calls? My mind is now racing, I can't seem to recall any phone calls!

"What?" I blurt out wildly. "You never called me!"

He scoffs cruelly. "Don't lie to yourself, Imogen. You know that I did!"

I genuinely have no idea what he's going on about, the ass! Unable to control my annoyance, I suddenly say something uncalled for.

"You blind, bloody fool! What the hell were you thinking?" I spit in anger. I watch his face change. "If you really wanted to speak to me, you could have visited me in person! I was busy with Uni, and as far as I knew, you wouldn't touch me with a yard pole!" I continue.

His eyes widen with grief.

"Damn you, Imogen! You'd make it my fault, wouldn't you? You ignored me while I was suffering. A true friend never would have left me. But that's stupid, because you're not a true friend. You never were!"

As soon as the last three words leave his mouth, his eyes soften with regret. But he's still bitter as heck, I can tell. He doesn't mean it. Please God, tell me that he doesn't.

"Clive, please just hear me out. I know that we drifted apart, and Lord knows that I'm just as accountable for it as you are. But this isn't Sixth Form going onto University anymore. We're not eighteen year-olds." I say, actually managing to get an air of rationality into my voice.

"You still abandoned me." He began, although with less derision.

It was working. The funny thing with Clive was that when angry, he was unstoppable. He could bring the greatest of cities to its knees. I had seen that happen. But with the right words, and the right gestures, he could be calmed right down.

"I know, okay? I was damn near dead at the beginning of Uni. I genuinely had essays and assignments poking out of me. Plus, I was too self-centred to understand that you were hurting, and so, I ignored you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry" I say, in barely more than a whisper. That's all I can say. If he doesn't want to know, I'll leave.

He says nothing. He just stares ahead into space. That's it. Unable to say a word, I turn away from him and make towards the door.

"Imogen! Wait!" he calls

I begin to smile. That should have done the trick. I turn. He's sat opposite me, with the face of a crying child. He places one hand against the cold glass. Making my way back towards him, I begin smiling.

"Okay," is all that I can say. I sit back down, and place my hand against his. I can almost feel the warmth coming through the glass. There's my Clive. The friendly Clive. The Clive that I had come to know and love since childhood.

"So..." he begins. "Still a Doctor Who geek?"

I take my hand away, and pull my coat apart, to reveal the blue TARDIS t-shirt which I have on. I really have no idea why I wore it, it just seemed like the best thing to wear. Came in handy, though.

"You bet, Time Lord." I say, with a laugh.

"Remember that time we watched the entire Classic series in a week? We barely left the living room!" he chuckled, "I was annoyed that we didn't get to watch David Tennant's episodes though."

"No! David is no Doctor! Peter Davison forever." I protest, in anger.

"Said no one ever." He replies bluntly.

I sigh, in reply. This is nice. I'll definitely come more often. We continue to talk like this, for the first time in years. When the guard returns to tell me to move it, I don't want to go. Walking out of the door in a damned better state than I was when I walked in, I looked back at Clive. He smiles.

That's all.


	3. Chapter 3

Time's passed since that visit. I'm quite proud to say that I continued visiting. See, I'm a horrible lazy person, so the fact that I could even make the appointment in the first place was quite amazing. Don't even ask how I got through Uni with my chronic laziness. I did terrible things to get that degree. Anyway, I digress. Today's important. _Really_ important.

It's the day that Clive's being released from prison, and who's going to be there to pick him up? Me. I'm in the car at the moment, in the worst traffic jam that I've ever witnessed in my short twenty four years of life. While slowly easing onto the gas pedal, I check the mirrors. There's a complete and utter buffoon screaming on the phone in the car behind me; I can hear his rasping voice from here. In a desperate attempt to muffle out his painfully annoying voice, I turn the radio onto full volume, only to slam it off again, upon hearing _'Blurred lines'_ come on. That song. That bloody, accursed song. I'm trying to get that dratted bass line out of my head, but I can't. Besides, annoying things stick in our brains. I should know, having just gotten a Master's degree in neuroscience.

After what was quite possibly the worst two hours of my life, I finally arrive at the police station. I scan the area. Of course Clive's nowhere to be seen; I'll need to sign for him. Hurriedly, I make my way towards the automatic doors and rush into the foyer.

"Imogen Wakefield." I blurt out, before the woman at reception has a chance to ask. She narrows her eyes.

"Yes, you're here to collect Mr. Dove, I presume?" she says, in a rather irritated tone. What a touchy cow. Not everyone loves hanging around at a prison, you know.

"That's right." I reply quickly, while hiding my amusement.

"Right, you've just got to sign here, and he'll be let outside."

With shaking hands, I clumsily begin sign my own initials. Done.

"Thank you, Ms. Wakefield. If you'll be so kind to just wait outside." She says, in an unusually gentle voice.

Either she's seriously guilt tripping me right now, or she's just really changeable. Nonetheless, I begin my exit towards the outdoor parking. Leaning against my car, I slowly scan the area.

Minutes pass.

Still, no sign of Clive.

After about twenty five minutes, I finally see him emerging from the distance. He looks better than I've ever seen him. The hard lines which had emerged around his face are now gone. He seems happier; less careworn. I suppose it's because of my frequent visits. In his arms, is a rather large box, which is quite intriguing, considering the fact that you're only allowed so much in prison. His eyes quickly scan the parking, until they finally meet mine.

I think that if there's a heaven, it's here, deep in his eyes. His face changes. It's no longer screwed up in concentration. It's soft. He seems... free. By the time I become aware of the world around me, he's already begun hugging me.

I should space out less often.

"Wow- Clive- could you just-" Is all I manage to get out of his bone-crushing hug.

"It's great to finally get to see you properly, Immy" he yells, before burying his head in my shoulder. Immy? Holy hell, the last time he called me that was when we were 9.

Minutes pass.

He doesn't let go.

Should I say something?

I don't think I should; he's been locked up for donkey's years, this is probably the only real human contact he's had for ages. Finally, he lets me go. I open the car door and shove his box of possessions in the back.

"Heavy, Clive! What's this, your box full of drugs? Are you starting an underground meth lab?" I enquire, with genuine curiosity.

"You'd love that, Walter White." He replies with a smirk, as he gets into the passenger seat.

Revving the engine, I begin the long drive home. When I say long, I mean roughly 20 minutes give or take. That does however, depend on traffic.

"Let's have some music, shall we?" Clive suddenly says, while reaching out to turn on the radio.

"No, Clive don't-" I attempt to say, but it's too late.

This time, it's _'Thrift Shop.'_

"_What is this?" _Clive asks slowly, over the blaring song.

"Music, Clive. Music." I reply, while a shiver runs through my spine.

"I'd assume so! It's fantastic!" He exclaims, while headbanging furiously. All I can do is stare at the road ahead of me, while attempting to ignore the completely ridiculous spectacle occurring before me. By the time we reach the flat, Clive's hair is an utter mess as a result of his 'rave' in the passenger seat of my 30-year old Austin Allegro. I quickly park the car, and we enter the flat. Without even bothering to take his shoes off, Clive falls down onto my sofa and starts eating from an opened packet of chocolate cookies which I had left aside from earlier. I fall onto the sofa besides him, and stare at him stuffing his face for a while. For the first time since we stopped seeing eachother, he felt like my best friend again.

It would all be okay.


	4. Chapter 4

I let out a vehement hiss as I fruitlessly attempt to drape some tinsel across my window. It's much too high for my reach, and I have to jump to get anywhere near the top.

"Gah, Clive! Would you _please stop shovelling down mince pies and help me?"_ I spit in Clive's direction. He's sprawled out on _my_ sofa, with a china plate of what seems to be a tower of mince pies. He scoffs at me and puts his feet onto my coffee table.

"Who put up the tree?" He asks simply.

"That's completely irrelevant, now co-"

"Nope. Who put up the tree?" Clive cuts me off abruptly.

I sigh dramatically, solely because I understand the futility of this conversation. Clive and I have been living together for the past three months since he was released from prison, and he's never done anything to help me around the flat, other than put up the Christmas tree, and even that was a bloody riot. He smashed all of the glass baubles. _Lazy sod,_ I think bitterly.

After several minutes of wrestling with an inanimate object, I hurl the tinsel to the other side of the room and join Clive on my sofa, shoving his legs off the table. I grab a mince pie, peel off the foil and shove the entire thing in my mouth.

"Slow down greedy, slow down. You're going to hurl it up like you did last week. "Clive laughs, as I struggle to swallow it. Pretending that I didn't hear his smart retort, I just slump back and sink into the leather, while trying to enjoy the mawkish Christmas film on television. My mind begins to wander off into the distance, and I suddenly begin thinking about something I've tried to avoid.

I _think that _I'm semi-sort of in love.

As strange as I find it, it's true. I've known Clive going on fifteen years now; he's not exactly a stranger to me. While the thought of being anything more than friends once somewhat repulsed me, it's starting to feel a little more welcome. I really have little regard for his looks; while he's a relatively cute guy, that's not what it is.

I really have no idea _what _it is.

Maybe it's the fact that I've known him so long? Or maybe it's my guilt from cutting him off during Uni that's shining through. Maybe it's his care for me, and the way he'd never hurt me. The trust that we share is unbreakable. As naff as that sounds, it's the truth. Ever since he got out of prison, I've felt weird around him. Not the awkward type of weird, but in the sense that I feel fuzzy whenever he talks to me.

"Can I change the channel? I'm dying here. One more Christmas carol, and I think those pies are going to come back up." Clive abruptly says. My mind is quickly shaken away from my waking dream, and I let out a defensive snort of laughter.

"Thought you'd never ask. How about we watch that 'Human Centipede 2' movie? Apparently it's disgusting to the point that it makes the first one look like a Disney film."

"Tempting... but how did you get it? Let me guess, you got it off Megashare?" Clive asks in an accusatory tone. His eyebrows are raised and he's now looking at me as if I ought to be the one serving a prison sentence. As far as city-destroying madmen go, Clive sure does care about the movie industry. I avert his piercing gaze.

"Maaaybe... Maybe not." I giggle innocently, in attempt to lessen the seriousness of his glare.

"Pfft." Instead of changing the channel, he switches the television set off altogether, and puts the plate of mince pies down. It's almost empty by now. Curling up under the patchwork quilt resting on the sofa, he begins to nod off.

_Typical Clive_. _Just start power napping whenever faced with a confrontation. _

As ominously creepy as it sounds, I watch him sleep. His face softens completely, and his chestnut hair flops across his face. My lips curve up into a smile, and I pat his head, before getting up and clearing away the plate of mince pies set down at his feet. At that moment, I realise that I'm no longer 'semi-sort of in love.'

I'm in love.

Well and properly in love.

That nauseating feeling that causes you to act like a blithering fool all the time. That irritating emotion that clouds your judgement and causes you to hand in essays late. I feel an overwhelming desire to just sit next to him and watch him sleep all night, but there are only so many boundaries I'm willing to cross at the moment.

**So, there you have it. A short fluffy Christmasfic worthy of only the Internet. I'm not exactly sure as to whether I'll write any more, but considering I have nothing planned for the holidays, I probably will. **


End file.
